Drops of Starlight
by OceansAria
Summary: One-shots of Feysand. Canon and AU.


_Good morning, Feyre darling._

 _Morning, prick._

The chuckle rattled down the bond, tickling her spine. Springtime sunlight danced off the bath that Alis had drawn for her. She shed her robe and lowered herself in, projecting the image to her mate in hopes of teasing him.

 _Is that anyway to speak to your High Lord?_ A heat-filled growl. _Nice robe._

Feyre sent an obscene gesture through her thoughts. Another chuckle; another hum of warmth and yearning in her skin.

 _Is that anyway to speak to your expectant mate?_ She skimmed her fingers down the line of soaps until she selected a bar inlaid with peony petals and chips of gold. These daily morning baths granted a few, brief moments of peace as well as total freedom to speak to Rhys down the bond. Here she didn't have to glance over her shoulder at a constant. Here, she could just _be_. Raising the bar of soap to her nose, Feyre sniffed and indulged in the sharp scent of peppermint before she took her washcloth and went to work lathering up her body.

 _How are you feeling, by the way?_

She massaged a section of her lower back. _Nauseous._

 _The child is giving you a rough time, then?_

 _No, its father is._

Rhysand huffed. _Charming._

 _Glad you think so._

 _I wish to be there with you._

 _I want you here as well, Rhys, but it won't be much longer. I'm only a few months into the pregnancy—before I even begin to show, I'll be home. In Velaris._

A pause, a heartbeat, a shattered, anxious breath. _With me._

 _With you._ She stopped washing her arm just long enough to send a burst of sparks down the bond, the closest thing to a physical embrace.

Then came a memory—a sharp blast of skin on skin, baited breaths, paint in places where it most certainly shouldn't be. When it left her mind she was breathless in reality and altogether weak.

 _I miss your skin, darling._ His purr nearly skimmed her collarbone, nearly caressed the shell of her ear. _I miss your heartbeat. I miss your taste. Your quick wit, your snarky smile. I miss you._

Feyre drained the tub and stood on shaky limbs, climbing her way inch by inch out of the massive clawfoot tub, grabbing onto the first towel she could find. _Warn a girl the next time you decide to bombard her with sex, will you?_

She wrapped the towel around her torso as her mate's laughter trilled down the bond, bright and trilling.

 _I'll try. Run along, Feyre darling. Tamlin awaits._

 _Can't I just hide away in here and talk to you?_

His grin was a curl of starlight tracing patterns on her skin. _Soon enough,_ he said in parting.

Then she was all alone again-but it was for a mere second. Alis came to dress her for the day, then Feyre was ushered to the throne room where Tamlin stood, waiting and a bit agitated-he'd been the most fidgety she'd ever seen him since it had been revealed that Ianthe carried his child. Although it had truly pissed her off, Feyre had been amplifying her anger for the ruse's sake and using it as an excuse and a battering ram against him whenever the topic of warming his bed arose. He was dressed in a tunic of soft green and tall boots, and other than his weary expression and tightened fists, he was relaxed, regal.

"Feyre," Tamlin offered his arm with a sigh of near relief. "You look magnificent."

 _You say that_ every _day_. "Thank you."

"Shall we?" He swept his hand towards the pair of thrones and the line of fairies waiting.

Feyre nodded and they glided across the hall, taking their positions on the thrones. As they sat, hand in hand, for hours on end, Feyre couldn't stop staring at her arm-where underneath a glamour of her own was her tattoo.

 _Rhys_? She sent out into the void.

It took a few minutes, perhaps five, before there was a reply.

 _Yes, Feyre darling?_

In revenge and in good fun, Feyre sent a burst of memories of their adventures in the boudoir. Each one overlapping, quick and fast and a bit breathtaking.

A wicked chuckle rang in her ears as the memories faded.

 _Touché, Feyre darling._

 _We're even, then?_

 _Not even close._

And so her mate kept her company as they battled back and forth, seeing who would give in first while she sat beside her former lover and pretended that she didn't want to snap his tanned neck.


End file.
